• Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar

Nathalie Himmelrich

Inspiring Hope | Finding healthy ways of Grieving | Writer

  • Books
    • NEW BOOK! Bridging The Grief Gap
    • Shop
      • My Account
    • Amazon shop
  • About Me
    • Media Links
    • Work with Me
      • Counselling and Coaching
  • Resources
    • Courses
      • May We All Heal 2022 – A New Beginning
    • Donate
    • Grievers Support
    • Supporters Resources
    • Grieving Parents Support Network
    • Grief Quotes (Downloads)
    • Free Downloads
  • Blog
  • Podcast
    • Listen Here
    • Show Notes
  • English

grieving my child

Don’t Apologize For Your Grief

February 26, 2021 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

grief quote
Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

Grief caused collateral damage in my life, my relationships and myself. Almost six years ago, my younger twin daughter died on the third day after her birth, followed by my mother’s death through suicide four and a half month later. The experience of death changed me so intensely that it took years upon years to get to know myself again. And it still continues to some degree.

I hated the wreckage grief caused in my life

I missed the parts of myself that were lost and hated the person I had become: full of anger, resentment, impatience and lack of trust. The first years, I struggled so much that I told my husband “you have the luxury to leave me, I’m stuck with myself”. I would have left if I could. Luckily, I am blessed with a patient and understanding person at my side. More patient than I would have been able to be given the circumstances.

My twin pregnancy was the miracle of the first round of IVF. A miracle because we implanted one fertilized egg and on the first ultrasound found out – to everyone’s surprise – that I carried identical twins. Even though I was considered to be an ‘older mom’ I was somewhat naïve at the things that could possibly ‘go wrong’ to bring a healthy child, let alone two, into this world. I was nineteen weeks pregnant when the ultrasound showed multicystic kidneys in twin B. My journey of grieving the life not yet born and most probably not meant to survive outside the womb started.

At least you have one child

Having one child is better than no child, at least for those who were trying to make me feel better. I stopped counting the times I heard platitudes like “at least you’ve got one and she’s healthy”. Did this mean that there was no reason for me to grieve given the fact that I “at least” had one? Did they want me to apologize for my grief? Of course not. People who haven’t experienced the loss of a child can’t or don’t want to imagine it. Even if they do, this kind of grief is so far from imaginable that it is difficult, if not impossible, to empathize with.

In addition, I had these old tapes playing in my mind; society’s old grief myths tapes. When I wasn’t ‘feeling better’ after one year, I was wondering what I had done wrong. My grief support network supported me saying “this is normal”. Maybe the fact that I felt anything but normal. My experience, compounded by multiple death, both unexpected and at least one through violent force, an intercontinental move and having to care for a newborn – I felt like a zombie.

What does grief really look like?

Trying to make sense of the very thing that never makes sense: the grieving experience. Somehow society in general still hasn’t managed to learn about and teach an accurate image of what grief looks and feels like. This fallacy leaves the bereaved question their experience and fear they are going crazy.

I still notice that I apologize for the fact that I include my dead child in the conversation. I answer honestly when asked, “how many children do you have?”. They look at me even more puzzled when I add “I have twins” when clearly, they only see one. The rewiring of my brain is still in process.

Don’t apologize for your grief – it is the homeless love in action.

Filed Under: child loss, emotions/feelings, grief/loss, grieving parents, love/relationship/marriage Tagged With: child loss, grief, grief and loss, grief is not attention seeking, grieving a child, grieving my child, grieving parents, homeless love

Learning To Live Without You

December 12, 2020 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

child asleep
Image from Nathalie Himmelrich’s personal archives

Dear Child of Mine,

Exactly 5 years ago I conceived you and your sister. I remember it so clearly because I reread the journal entries from that time, describing every day in January. Given our journey to bring you into this world hadn’t happened through natural conception, we started assisted conception at the beginning of January and I decided to document our adventure. But this is a story to be told another time.

Our journey brought us both of you, one to raise on planet earth, and one to learn to live without here present in physical form. I’m still learning… every day.

I’m finding it hard to find the words to express my thoughts and feelings in regards to learning to live without you. It’s something I neither expected nor wanted to learn.

Some have said to me: “No one should have to learn this”.
Others believe: “You were meant to learn this”.
Still others reply: “That’s not even a ‘learning’”.

I should?
I have to?
I never wanted to.
I need to?
I must?
… live without you?

Truthfully, I don’t exactly live without you. You are on my mind, every day. Some days more and some days less. We speak about you. Your sister speaks about you often. She misses you, more so lately, as she really understands the concept of impermanence. She wants a sibling to play with. She doesn’t understand and asks me repeatedly why you couldn’t stay.

I often wonder what the psychological imprint of an identical twin, with whom she spent the first 9 months of her life side by side, leaves behind.

I wonder whether there is consciousness that still connects you from your side with us on our side. We still think of you so often, what about you?

I wonder what you would be like, whether you’d be as energetic as your sister, as verbal and argumentative… I don’t need any help imagining what you would look like given you are identical twin sisters but I wonder how you would be different from your sister.

Would you have the same blond locks, the irresistible giggle when we’d play tickle games? Would you be as bossy as your sister and if so, who would be the one telling the other what to do?

I’m sure your kisses and hugs would be as sweet as your sister’s. Your enjoyment and excitement would match hers. You would probably listen to stories side by side and sing along with Frozen’s theme song together. I don’t doubt you’d enjoy art class, theatre and play group as much as she does.

I’m learning to live without you. I like this statements as it implies a process, something that is happening. It does not proclaim an end or a beginning. I live, without you living by my side. It doesn’t mean I forget you. How could I. Why would I? There is no need to forget. In fact, it is healthier to remember with reverence.

Recently I read on a friend’s post, celebrating his son’s (who had passed as a toddler) 19th birthday: ‘Still learning to live without you’.

Still? There are different meanings to this word. Most likely in this context, it means: up to and including the present or the time mentioned; even now (or then) as formerly.

I have accepted the loss.
Still, I miss you. I miss your unique giggle.
Still, I love you. I love the memory of you and your sister in my womb.

Still, you are part of me.
Still, I am your mother and you are mine. My child.

As Lexi Behrndt from Scribbles & Crumbs so aptly said: “No passage of time will ever change this.” (Quote as I remember it…)

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

I love you. Full stop. 

¸.•´*¨`*•✿      ✿      ✿•*´¨*`•.¸

This article was first published January 6, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Filed Under: child loss, dear... letters, emotions/feelings, from personal experience, grief/loss, grieving parents Tagged With: child loss, dear child, grief over time, grieving a child, grieving my child

My Dear ‘Would –Be’ Child

September 7, 2016 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich
Handlettered quote by Nathalie Himmelrich

You are my ‘would-be’ child, you who would have turned five (four | three) last week. The children from Kindergarten would have celebrated with you in the morning. The rest of our family would have visited in the afternoon. We would be singing Happy Birthday to you and you would have impatiently ripped open your presents and whooped in joy.

Excitement would be here, given that you just started Kindergarten two weeks ago. You would say ‘I’m a big girl now’. I would walk with you and your sister to Kindergarten every day and I’d pick you up before lunch. Your sister would fight with you over the toys you both want to play with at the very same time. Your Kindergarten teacher would have two sets of identical twins in her class this year! You and your sister would each talk to one of the twin boys that live just a few doors down our street, and soon you would walk to Kindergarten with them, holding hands. There would not be one Kindergarten child missing this year.

Both of you would want my attention, often probably at the same time. It wouldn’t always be easy. Both of you talking at the same time would fry my brain. Your sister would have someone to play with and talk to, someone to stay awake with or wake up in the morning. You would share your toys and books and – of course – also fight over them and throw them around in anger.

You would love sweets, especially lollies and Gummibears. I would hear you scream for ice cream and say ‘mmmmh’ when eating homemade chocolate cake. Your favorite meal would be spaghetti. If you could, you would start the day eating an ice cream and drinking cordial. On special occasions you’d be equally happy if Daddy would make you banana pancakes. At any chance you would want to lick the bowl when I was preparing a cake. But then you would dislike brushing teeth not matter the time of the day.

Mostly I would hug and kiss you, my child, I would hold your hand and feel your soft skin. I would brush your curly locks and bear your screams for me to stop because the brush pulls on the knots. You would want me to braid your hair or make pony or piggy tails.

OH, MY DEAR ‘WOULD-BE’ CHILD…

I would do anything to have sleepless nights, difficult discussions or an angry face telling me to go away if I could…
Anything to have you kick me at night sleeping in the same bed when you’re sick or scared of the monsters under your bed…
Anything to see you learn to ride your bike, even if it meant you’d fall and many times I’d pick you up and I’d sooth your bruises…

Sadly you’re my would-be child, the one that lives in my heart.
The would-be five year old but forever three days old.
Even if you’re not seen by the world out there, you are with me every day, in my heart, in my thoughts, in my dreams, in my sleepless nights, in my quite moments.

You belong to me as I belong to you.
You are part of me and I am part of you.

Your Mama, always.

NOTE:

* I’ve previously heard that some psychologists recommend bereaved parents ‘do not grow up your child in your imagination’. My personal experience and that as a grief counsellor is that it is absolutely normal and common to do so. As painful as those ‘would-be’ thoughts can be, they are also a normal way for parents to live out their dreams and hopes of a life that was cut short, the would-be life of their child.
“It is normal for parents to report that they having an ongoing relationship with their child through their memories and mental life.” (Worden J.W. 2002)

This article was first published September 7, 2016 in Still Standing Magazine.

Filed Under: authenticity, child loss, dear... letters, emotions/feelings, from personal experience, grief/loss, grieving parents, parenting Tagged With: child loss, dear child, grief and loss, grieving a child, grieving my child, grieving parents, personal letter

Dear Child Of Mine

September 2, 2015 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

hope
Photo from personal archives

Today, 4 years ago was the day you lived.

You were born yesterday 4 years ago – and you passed on, tomorrow 4 years ago.

It’s been 4 years, not a long time and still, quite some time has passed.

Certain things have changed – and some have not.

I miss you – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.

Those we love are those we miss when they are no longer around. This is normal.

Yesterday, as we celebrated you and your sister’s birthday she said: “I want Amya! I want my twin…” It came out of nowhere, what seemed to me out-of-context because at that moment we were not talking about you. She continued asking: “Did Amya want to grow up with me?”

I looked at your father, saying: “What do I say?” I translated what your sister had said, so he would understand in his language and he responded: “Yes, I think she would have if she could.”

We will honour and remember you – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.
Those we love are those we honour and remember when they are no longer around. This is normal.

Your sister has just grasped the concept of impermanence – she cried tears of sadness for 30 minutes after her birthday party was over this past Saturday. Your sister opened a present a bought in memory of you, a book about a girl who lost her name. I said: “I think Amya is glad if you keep the book and enjoy it for her.” She responded: “Yes, Amya can’t use the book where she is now…”

We celebrate your memory – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change. Those we love are those whose memory we celebrate when they are no longer around. This is normal. Nowadays, butterflies have become “Greetings from Amya”. How lucky are we to have a garden (on earth) with flowers and plants to attract lots of your greetings.

You are part of our lives – and that won’t change. It doesn’t have to change. I don’t expect it will ever change.
Those we love remain part of our lives, even when they are no longer around. This is normal. This is normal after loss. 

We miss you
We honour and remember you
We celebrate your memory
You are part of our lives
And your physical impermanence won’t change that.
It doesn’t have to change.

Thank you Amya – my Hope – for teaching me so much about life and death, grief and grieving, love and loss.

It’s been 4 years
Since I held you
In my arms
The only time, my child

(Author’s Note: The book ‘Grieving Parents: Surviving Loss as a Couple’ has just been released in its German translation (‘Trauernde Eltern: Wie ein Paar den Verlust eines Kindes überlebt’). This book has been writing in honour and memory of both of my daughters.)

This article was first published September 2, 2015 in Still Standing Magazine.

Filed Under: child loss, dear... letters, emotions/feelings, from personal experience, grief/loss, grieving parents Tagged With: birthday after loss, child loss, death anniversary, grieving a child, grieving my child, grieving parents, letter to my child

Being A Better Parent After Loss?

December 3, 2014 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

mother and child
Image from Nathalie Himmelrich’s personal archive (Photo by Tina Steinauer)

Not me.

I became a mother and then a bereaved mother 3 days later. Raising a twinless twin meant ‘learning to be a new mother’ at the same time as ‘learning to be the mother of a dead child’.

Motherhood came with sleepless nights, challenging start with breastfeeding, organizing a funeral, and turned into a constant feeling of overwhelm, anxiety and restlessness, mixed with overflowing love, cuddles and giggles.

Now, three years later I am parenting a strong-willed toddler, which brings me to the edge of patience on an hourly basis. She’s challenging me with the reoccurring, “No,” not wanting to brush teeth, put on jackets on cold winter mornings or get dressed at all. These scenarios, for the bereaved mother without children, might be met with statements like “I wish if only I had those challenges…”

Having held my 3-days-old daughter in my arms as she drew her last breath, I know what it means to lose her. I know what it means to stand in the fire of heart-breaking grief. The missing of my child is etched in my bare skin.

Grief scratched my soul so deeply, it left me wounded in a way that hasn’t just left a permanent scar, but a permanent sore wound which impacts my relationship with my living daughter. Even though her humour showers me with healing light, I am fearful something might happen to her. I jump when I see as much as an appearance of a potential dangerous situation, even when there isn’t really something to fear.

I do enjoy motherhood and I love my living daughter to bits. It does not need much imagination to get a sense of what her identical twin sister would have looked like. I am totally aware of what I don’t have and I do appreciate what I have.

I savour the moments I have and tell my daughter how much I love her every day, uncountable times. She might get therapy later for being smothered with love. I see twin parents being challenged with the load of two and I know what it means not having what they have, even if it’s dealing with the challenges. But knowing something they are not aware of does not make me a better mother.

The potential of loss is something I’m painfully aware of, in every waking moment. I am definitely experiencing motherhood deeply and consciously. I love smelling Ananda Mae’s hair and study her ringlets as she sits in deep concentration of Barney. Having said all of that, I’d rather be blissfully unaware and have two heads with ringlets to smell and comb through in the bath at night, even with the double crying of water and soap in their eyes.

I feel self-judgment as I lose patience in the moments of an extroverted 3-year old testing the boundaries. “No wonder… you wouldn’t have been able to handle twins” do I hear the haunting critical narrator in the cinema of my mind. The expectation to be always calm and poised is far-fetched and totally surreal, I know. And still: “I have experienced my daughter dying in my arms, sure enough, I should make sure I enjoy EVERY moment I have with her sister…”

And yes, I’m a master at being hard on myself.

I don’t have any comparison to being a mother without the experience of the loss. So really, who am I to say I would have been a better mother before or without the loss? It’s just a feeling, one that I can never get proof for.

There are no ‘Sliding Doors’…

Loss has made me acutely aware of the fragility of life. I don’t take things for granted. I enjoy deeply. I’ve seen eye to eye with death. I know what my purpose is with my daughter. Having said all of this, I’m human. I lose my temper. I scream when it all gets too much. That threshold of what I can bear has moved closer since I’ve wrapped my lifeless daughter on a bed of roses for her last journey.

I am just a mother.
Like you.
Happy and elated in one moment.
Lost and helpless at what how to react to my child in another moment.

Simply human – but not simple. 

This article was first published December 3, 2014 in Still Standing Magazine.

Filed Under: child loss, emotions/feelings, from personal experience, grief/loss, grieving parents, parenting Tagged With: child loss, grief and loss, grieving my child, grieving parents, mothering after loss, parenting after loss

Sometimes I Break Down…

November 18, 2011 By Nathalie Himmelrich Leave a Comment

beach and ocean
Photo by john vargues on Unsplash

Sometimes I break down
Out of the blue
Like unexpected storm
Which hits the land
For no real apparent reason

Grief kicks in
And surprises me with its despair
And I stand there helplessly
As my skirt gets soaked by rain

Vulnerability shows its face
The layers of ‘I’m fine’ are wearing thin
Penetrated by loneliness
I become silent

My head aches
From all those unshed tears
Which finally are released
Through the veils of self-preservation

I’m angry I’m sad
I’m frustrated
I have no patience
I shout I scream
I grind my teeth

But nothing brings back my child
Only the memory remains
Of her tiny little body
Never meant to grow
Beyond the picture in my memory

Filed Under: authenticity, child loss, from personal experience, grief/loss, grieving parents Tagged With: child loss, grief and loss, grieving a child, grieving my child, tears

Primary Sidebar

Cart

Subscribe for updates
    Built with ConvertKit
    Nathalie Himmelrich

    I accompany people therapeutically as a holistic counsellor and coach.

    I walk alongside people dealing with the challenges presented by life and death.

    I’m also a writer and published author of multiple grief resource books and the founder of the Grieving Parents Support Network.

    Terms of Use | Privacy Policy | Affiliate Disclosure

    Copyright © 2012 - 2022 Nathalie Himmelrich | All Rights Reserved

    We use cookies on our website to give you the most relevant experience by remembering your preferences and repeat visits. By clicking “Accept”, you consent to the use of ALL the cookies. However you may visit Cookie Settings to provide a controlled consent.
    Cookie settingsACCEPT
    Manage consent

    Privacy Overview

    This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these cookies, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may have an effect on your browsing experience.
    Necessary
    Always Enabled
    Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously.
    CookieDurationDescription
    cookielawinfo-checkbox-analytics11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Analytics".
    cookielawinfo-checkbox-functional11 monthsThe cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category "Functional".
    cookielawinfo-checkbox-necessary11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Necessary".
    cookielawinfo-checkbox-others11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Other.
    cookielawinfo-checkbox-performance11 monthsThis cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Performance".
    viewed_cookie_policy11 monthsThe cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. It does not store any personal data.
    Functional
    Functional cookies help to perform certain functionalities like sharing the content of the website on social media platforms, collect feedbacks, and other third-party features.
    Performance
    Performance cookies are used to understand and analyze the key performance indexes of the website which helps in delivering a better user experience for the visitors.
    Analytics
    Analytical cookies are used to understand how visitors interact with the website. These cookies help provide information on metrics the number of visitors, bounce rate, traffic source, etc.
    Advertisement
    Advertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads.
    Others
    Other uncategorized cookies are those that are being analyzed and have not been classified into a category as yet.
    Save & Accept